The Secret Ingredient

by Kilby Blades

  “Fifty-five hundred,” he murmured casually as the house came into view.

  “You know it’s just me and not me and, like, eight kids, right?”

  The structure was modern, one of those high-concept beauties that was all angles and glass. She appreciated its design much like she might appreciate leafing through a copy of Architectural Digest.

  “It’s too big,” she said decisively, staying where she was even as Clyde unbuckled his seatbelt.

  “Let’s take a look,” he prodded, a bit confidently, Cella thought. “Even if you won’t buy it, you can tell me what elements you like.”

  It was sound-enough logic. She was particular about her kitchens and helping him understand what she liked would make for a good use of time. She didn’t want to clear another afternoon if it meant all he would show her were houses like this.

  The interior was more stunning than the outside—impeccably furnished but far too grand. The view was gorgeous and the dining room had a stylish petrified wood table that seated sixteen. She didn’t like the kitchen, for reasons she couldn’t pinpoint, despite it having every feature she’d wanted to see.

  “I don’t like the infinity pool,” she said to Clyde as they strolled outdoors. “Too dangerous. That one looks like it drops straight down.”

  Clyde hummed in understanding. “Planning on kids?”

  She smiled around the gut-punch. “No. But I do want to get a dog.”

  To Clyde’s credit, the two they saw that afternoon were fifteen-hundred feet smaller, though four-thousand feet was still a lot of house. She wanted enough space to host Gianna and her boys, and her mother whenever she decided to visit. What she didn’t say out loud was that a huge house would only make her feel more alone.

  “Tomorrow we’ll see the commercial spaces,” Clyde said as they drove down the Pacific Coast Highway. Cella liked that he was a one-stop shop. Finding a restaurant and a house were the final pieces. The dissolution of her contract with Kevin was complete. Negotiations for ending Cooking with Marcella had begun. She’d spend the month before the start of her book tour taping the last episodes of the season. When she returned, she may not be rested, but she’d be free.

  Freedom was a relative concept, of course. She’d green-lighted a few appearances, one of them the documentary film she’d heard about from an early pitch. Compared to what her schedule had been under Liz’s management, her new routine would be a walk in the park. She’d work in her restaurant and juggle other small obligations with time to spare.

  Cella looked out at the ocean, feeling for the first time in a long time that she had a chance at being just a little happy. The good living she’d done that summer had gotten her a bit drunk. She was certain that she’d never find another Max—definitely not in LA and probably not anywhere. But she hadn’t turned everything upside down only to roll over and give up on her own joy.

  But joy was as relative a concept as freedom. The ocean gave her joy. So did the aroma of leeks being sautéed in butter and the pleasant tingling in her nose from the effervescent acidity of a good champagne. Cella would take these small joys, knowing that she may never have the big ones, knowing that—for now, and maybe forever—she’d have to do it alone.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Dawes.”

  Seconds after she bid Clyde goodbye, a doorman whose name she didn’t know let Cella into her building. After returning the greeting, she stepped into the waiting elevator and pulled out her phone. This was another modern masterpiece—a gleaming tower that gave her what she was told was one of the best views of the city. It was sleek and beautiful, but only felt livable for its private rooftop garden. Cella thought to make herself a drink when she got upstairs. As the elevator zoomed upward, she unlocked her phone and looked for the one thing she cared about: seeing whether Max had responded.

  It had been five days, but he would have spotty coverage. That was, if he even got coverage at all. Ignoring a few texts from Keri for the time being, her hopes lifted when she saw a green circle next to his name, which was highlighted in bold. Wasting no time, she tapped the screen to see what he had sent.

  Like hers, it was a picture, one that could have appeared in a travel magazine. A colorfully-dressed indigenous woman sat behind five enormous burlap bags. It was some sort of market. Exotic fruits she didn’t recognize sat ripe and waiting. Signs sporting numbers in a currency she didn’t know announced prices. But the woman was in the background and the picture focused on a fruit in the center—a gorgeous green thing that looked like a bright, scaled egg. One had been cut in half and revealed cream-colored flesh and large black seeds. Cherimoyas. Deliciosas, his text read. Cella couldn’t stop the giddy smile that bloomed on her face. He was telling her, in Spanish, that this fruit she had never heard of was very good.

  This deserved a drink after all, Cella thought, taking special care as she fixed herself a cocktail—a pineapple and rum thing she had invented by happenstance several years before. Finding a festive striped straw, she zested an orange as garnish and finished it with cardamom. Walking onto her rooftop garden, she placed the drink on the black wicker table and stood behind it at an angle that would let her take a flattering shot. Vetoing five texts she couldn’t send—about how she wished he were there and how the LA skyline had nothing on the ocean, she settled on something safer. After typing out Long day at the office and attaching the photo, Cella hit “send”.

  But her high ended quickly. She was, after all, drinking alone, and she did wish he was there. On Facebook, he had not accepted her friend request, and Cella defaulted to reading news feeds from other friends. Gianna’s boys were growing—they both looked older, and happier somehow, than they had at the beginning of the summer. Deidre had posted a selfie showing off a hot purple streak in her hair and The Longport Herald announced that an upscale American grille was coming to town. Cella never commented directly on posts. The last thing she needed was anyone discovering her true identity. Anita Snack as her fake name was clever, but also kind of obvious.

  It’s a good look on you, she wrote simply in a private message to Deidre.

  She was surprised when Deidre immediately started writing back. What Cella liked about Facebook was that you could stay connected to people even if you were never online at the same time. She hadn’t put it in her letter to Max. Nothing would have been lamer than her suggesting they be Facebook friends. But when she was working, it was a lifeline to her.

  Hey, girl! Been meaning to reach out.

  Cella’s thumb moved rapidly and her lips melted into a smile. Miss me already?

  You have no idea.

  I miss you guys, too. So, give me the latest.

  By the time she set her keys down on the kitchen counter, her phone buzzed with an incoming call.

  “Clara’s back in the office and has been keeping up your tradition of having treats,” Deidre started right in.

  Cella couldn’t stop the wider smile from blooming when she heard the sound of Deidre’s voice. “That’s so sweet.”

  “Actually, it’s not,” Deidre informed her matter-of-factly. “Let’s just say not everything she brings into the office turns out quite right.”

  Cella cringed through her smile. “I’ll send her a few recipes. Easy ones.”

  “Please, would you? Word’s gotten around. People know that if you eat one of her bars, you’ll come out sicker than when you got there.”

  Cella couldn’t help but to laugh. It was wrong, but shooting the shit about the goings on in town felt so, so good. She was tempted to ask about the new doctor—whether people liked him and whether they thought he would stay. But asking would be a dead giveaway that she was barely talking to Max.

  “Vic’s the reigning darts champion again,” Deidre continued.

  “Which I’m sure he loves,” Cella murmured.

  “You can barely breathe for as much space as his ego takes up. Half the town will get in line to buy you a drink the next time you show him up. You know…whenever you come back.�
��

  Cella’s smile faded, because she didn’t know when that would be, or what sort of welcome might await her. No—that wasn’t true. It would be a happy reunion with Deidre and Jeanne and Kaito and all of her other casual friends. The only welcome she couldn’t be sure of was the one that mattered to her most.

  “Speaking of which,” Deidre continued. “That’s why I wanted to call.”

  Cella’s heartbeat quickened, and she prayed silently that Deidre wouldn’t put her on the spot. Leaving the way she did had afforded her the luxury of fielding questions about when and if she was returning, of what her status was with Max.

  “Your charity auction items…” Deidre trailed off. Cella breathed a sigh of relief. “We need to prepare instructions before we notify the winners.”

  Cella had pledged a large handful of prizes. She had cookbooks to sign, private cooking lessons to schedule, evenings to plan as the personal chef for in-home dinner parties for two winners. Her wine collection was cellared with a service in LA and she’d have to call on them to ship several very nice bottles.

  After briefly confirming the list she remembered with Deidre, Cella’s brain went into logistics mode. The books and the wine were easy. All she needed for those were names and addresses. She’d write thank you notes on her personal card stock and send the books out herself. The cooking lessons and personal chef commitments were more complicated.

  “Where do the winners live?” she asked. Given all the promo they’d done, those who had attended had come from far and wide. Cella remembered greeting quite a few fans from other Southern cities. She’d even met a couple from New York.

  “So far, we only have addresses for the auction winners. We haven’t pulled the raffle yet for long-time supporters, but, chances are they’ll be from people who live in town.”

  “I have book tours,” Cella said. “That puts my next open dates in November and December, which I know are tough months. Why don’t you ask them each for five dates?”

  “I can do that,” Deidre replied in her usual upbeat way.

  They talked for another minute, about the new restaurant that was coming and how quiet things had gotten with the tourists gone. Cella found that a lump had formed in her throat by the time she spoke her final words.

  “Deidre? Tell everyone I said ‘hi’.”

  32 Kaito

  “You want me to leave you two alone?”

  Kaito smirked as he settled down across from Max at a table in his empty restaurant. He eyed the plate of dumplings in front of Max, which—despite being so hot they were still steaming—were nearly gone. The last lunch guests had been on their way out just as Max had been on his way in. Kaito had served him anyway. He’d only been back from Bolivia for a day and wanted to see his friend as much as he wanted to eat his way through town on all his favorite dishes. Kaito’s dumplings had been at the top of his list, and Max—not so subtly—had just moaned.

  “Holy fuck, these are good,” he murmured around a mouthful he still chewed even as he used chopsticks to dip black scallion vinegar onto another dumpling.

  “What’d you expect, man?” Kaito lifted his arms up and turned his palms to the sky as if expecting Max to bow in adulation to he—the gyoza god.

  A second before Kaito had arrived, he’d texted a picture to Cella with a caption that simply read: Back home. They’d been back and forth with half a dozen pictures each those past weeks. It wasn’t much, but it was a connection, and more than he’d dared to expect after a goodbye like hers. He wondered what would happen now that he was back on the map with a working phone. He had no idea what they’d say to one another. He barely cared, for as much as he needed to hear her voice.

  “So you and Natalie?” Unbeknownst to Kaito, Max had seen his friend leaving the house of Natalie McGregor the night before at a rather indecent hour. When his friend’s eyes widened, Max put down his chopsticks and wiped his hands on a cloth napkin as he laughed. “Next time, don’t park your car outside.”

  Kaito leaned in then, as if they weren’t alone. “Mum’s the word, alright? The divorce won’t be final for another month.”

  “That serious?” Either Kaito thought they would still be together after a month or he was unfailingly gallant in protecting Natalie’s honor.

  Kaito shrugged. “I’ve been interested for a while. Things got a lot easier when she realized you were permanently off the market.”

  “Permanent may be an overstatement,” Max admitted.

  “For real? Things didn’t work out with you and Cella?”

  Max shook his head, knowing the reproach he’d heard from Jake wouldn’t come. “She’s gone.”

  Instead of telling Max to do something crazy, like go after her, Kaito just pursed his lips and blew out a sorrowful breath. “I was sure you’d re-open Piccarelli’s together.”

  Max narrowed his eyes. “What would make you think that?” Jake had never spilled Max’s secrets, but there was a first time for everything.

  “Forget about whatever else you and Cella were doing…” Kaito began with mild innuendo, “The night of the dinner party…I saw you two in the kitchen together. It’s obvious she’s your kitchen wife.”

  Max choked a little on the gulp of water he’d just attempted.

  “What the fuck is a kitchen wife?” His voice was garbled from the ice cube that had slid into his mouth.

  “You know…kitchen wife, work wife…the person who you need to be really great at your job.”

  “Who’s your work wife?” Max remained alarmed by the unfamiliar term.

  Kaito blinked. “Julio,” he said, as if it were obvious.

  “Cella doesn’t need me to be great at her job,” Max pointed out.

  “Don’t be too sure,” Kaito preached. “Chemistry like that isn’t something you can fake. You’ve seen those videos from the kitchen at The French Laundry, right? You guys, like, do a dance.”

  One dumpling remained on his plate. Suddenly, Max wasn’t hungry.

  “Cella’s dance card is full.”

  “Alright.” Kaito leaned forward, setting his forearms on the table. “So what now?”

  Maybe it was because Kaito was his only friend who hadn’t jumped to offer unsolicited advice that Max decided to tell him the blunt truth.

  “I’m selling the restaurant.”

  Kaito took off his toke and ran his hands through his hair.

  “And quitting my job. Bolivia was my last assignment.”

  “You gonna go back to Ed’s practice? I heard something about Linc buying it.”

  “He did buy it. But he offered me a job. He needs another doctor, half-time.”

  Realization dawned on Kaito’s face. “You lucky bastard,” he accused. “The restaurant will go for seven figures. Which makes you a rich man.”

  Max didn’t mention that Fitch’s offer price had eight. The restaurant sat at the end of a long driveway of a much bigger plot—twenty-four acres, to be exact—of valuable oceanfront land.

  “It works out.” Max told Kaito of tentative plans he hadn’t yet told anyone. “I’d still get to treat patients. I could devote more time to the preservation society. Spend more time with the girls. Do all the things I couldn’t when I was away.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got it all worked out.”

  Only Kaito could pull off half-sarcasm, half-admiration.

  “But?” Max heard a “but” in Kaito’s voice.

  “But you really don’t want to cook?”

  “Not as a head chef.” Max said it with conviction. Each time he thought it, it rang more true. “That’s what I figured out. It’s the energy of a kitchen that I like. I have a few original recipes…but coming up with entire menus? I don’t want to be the guy in charge.”

  Kaito finished taking a long drink of water from his own glass. “I hear you, man. It’s a good week if I get to spend half my time in the kitchen. It’s a lot of ordering the food, and dealing with problems when the suppliers get the orders wrong—schmoozing the guest
s and interviewing staff. I just had to fire a bartender who was skimming money. My best line cook’s quitting at the end of the year. Wants to go to culinary school.”

  “You been crying on Julio’s shoulder?” Max quipped, buoyed somewhat by Kaito’s commiseration.

  “Hell yeah.” Kaito’s tone was unapologetic. When Max laughed, Kaito still looked indignant. “I’m secure in my masculinity.”

  “So, call me.” The words spilled from his mouth before his mind had fully formed the thought. When he realized that moonlighting in Kaito’s kitchen every once in a while might just scratch Max’s itch he said it again. “Call me when you’re short on staff.”

  Max didn’t know what scared him more—the fact that, after seven agonizing weeks, his Humpty-Dumpty life might just be able to be put back together, or the fact that the look in Kaito’s eyes was deadly serious. “Watch out. I’ll hold you to that.”

  “Max Piccarelli. In the flesh.”

  Buddy Fitch gave Max a hard slap on the back with the hand that wasn’t holding his cigar before reaching out for an overly-firm shake. He’d been hounding Max for a full five years. Add to that the three years he’d hounded Aunt Alex, and the man had been after the restaurant for eight. For all his ruthless pursuit, Fitch had never struck Max as a bad man—only an enterprising one. Though, it had always bothered Max that his first call from Fitch had come when dirt was still fresh on Aunt Alex’s grave. Still, it was peculiar that Max had never met a man whose name had been known to him for years.

  The research Max had done on-and-off had painted Fitch as some sort of Southern real estate mogul. That he didn’t do jam-packed housing or big-store commercial projects was a point in his favor. The luxury hotels and boutique timeshare communities he built were developed to have an antebellum feel. Fitch had worked hard to convince Max that he would meet one condition: keeping the original building and allowing it to remain a restaurant. But the Stetson hat and longhorns mounted on the hood of his Cadillac were utterly out of place. Max felt like he’d stepped into an episode of Dallas.